


there shall your heart be also

by mistrali



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Loneliness, M/M, POC Aziraphale (not mentioned in the fic), POC Crowley (not mentioned in fic), Romance, Touch Starved Aziraphale (Good Omens), Wing Grooming, touch starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-11 16:28:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19931047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistrali/pseuds/mistrali
Summary: Crowley rolled his eyes. Only Aziraphale would just forget about his wings until they moulted.





	there shall your heart be also

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [I Fell Into Grace](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19798093) by [werebear](https://archiveofourown.org/users/werebear/pseuds/werebear). 



> With thanks to [starrnobella](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starrnobella/profile) and [blueandie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueandie/profile) for the beta. Any remaining mistakes are mine.

A white feather danced from Aziraphale’s wings to land on his brogues. Crowley grinned and mentally placed bets on how long his friend would take to cotton on. Half an hour went by and more feathers fell, in a flurry of white, before the angel noticed.

“Oh, another moult. Those do tend to creep up on me,” said Aziraphale, sighing.

He set aside the book he’d been shelving and winched out his wings, with a regretful glance at the new shipment of eighteenth-century medical texts.

Crowley clucked his tongue. Aziraphale’s wings looked like they hadn’t seen a grooming brush since Mesopotamia. His primary feathers were bedraggled and his remiges were askew. Even the coverts weren’t nestled in neatly against one another, but stuck out like pins in a pincushion.

“Satan below, angel, how long since you groomed them? Don’t tell me Upstairs have gone Bohemian.”

“Around the French Revolution, I think? Usually I do them every half a century or so,” admitted the angel absent-mindedly, carding his fingers through to catch the worst of the powder-down feathers. “But I’d forgotten about them until just now.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. Only Aziraphale would just forget about his wings until they moulted. Two hundred years, honestly. The angel was ever so slightly flushed, and (not that Crowley would admit it) his embarrassment was endearing. Angels were so prudish sometimes. For beings designed to love, they weren’t exactly a touchy-feely bunch.

Demons as a whole thought nothing of grooming each other; it was a tradition they’d begun before the Fall and it had just sort of carried on through the ages. It was the quickest way to figure out who was on your side and who’d as soon shiv you as look at you. Most demons were vain about their wings. They flaunted them, marvelling at the way they caught the dingy lights of Hell, always comparing lustre and wingspan. They had larger, more iridescent wings in general, and liked to lord it over the angels when one of them deigned to pop Down There.

Besides, you got soot, dirt and flies caught in your wings if you didn’t keep them clean. He supposed Heaven didn’t have that problem, the souped-up bastards.

“We hardly ever fly these days, my dear, so there didn’t seem much point,” said Aziraphale, waving a hand dismissively.

“Well, it’s not hygienic,” blurted Crowley.

“Really, Crowley, there’s no call for that sort of thing.” The angel’s voice could have curdled milk.

Crowley tsked, contrite. “I didn’t mean it like that, angel. Just meant that you can get parasites if you leave it too long. Would you like...” he said, stifling a sneeze as a piece of down floated under his nose. “Would you like me to...?”

Aziraphale peered at him with a curious expression. “Please. If you’re sure...? It’s such a chore doing them myself.” They’d never done this before, but now, with this new understanding between them, everything was different. 

“Yeah. Course,” said Crowley, trying to keep the roughness out of his voice. He ignored the odd little thrill that went through him at the prospect of it. Murmuring his thanks, Aziraphale perched on the sofa next to Crowley and extended a wing to flutter over Crowley’s lap.

Crowley had Aziraphale’s jacket and shirt off with a wave. Then he got up, padded over to the table, and fetched the comb. With each stroke of the comb’s teeth, the barbules interlocked a little further and Aziraphale’s feathers began to take on their characteristic pearlescence. Every so often he paused to pluck out a particularly damaged feather, exposing little golden pinfeathers and making space for the full feather to emerge. Since the angel’s wings hadn’t come into contact with the physical plane too often, there wasn’t too much dirt and debris, but even two centuries’ worth created enough that he had to be specially careful with the combing.

Aziraphale wriggled and sighed, and Crowley closed his eyes and basked in the warmth, the touch, everything he hadn’t let himself have until this blessed apocalypse was over. The angel was making little purring noises, and really, that alone was worth the price of admission.

“There,” Crowley said softly, some time later. He miracled away the pile of discarded feathers and ran his fingers through the angel’s wings, aligning a primary here and tugging off a sheath there. When he was finished, Aziraphale’s wings would at least look presentable, if not exactly sleek. You couldn’t get that sort of sleekness without oil. Pity, really, that angels didn’t have oil glands. He settled for massaging slow circles around the wingpit, working his fingers into the places where wing met flesh. 

It was only when the wing juddered at the shoulder that he looked up.

Aziraphale’s gaze was fixed on his hands, which were folded in his lap. He didn’t seem to notice that tears were running down his face. He looked very calm and, all at once, very far away.

“Er - Aziraphale, you’re...” He gestured at his cheeks.

“Oh.” Aziraphale sniffed, and brushed away the moisture a little self-consciously. “The other Principalities and I used to groom each other, you know, before I was stationed here. We’d... we’d sit in the cloud-formations in the central pavilion and... well. I’d forgotten how it feels.” 

“Big on that sort of thing Upstairs, are they? I suppose you all sat around holding hands, too,” said Crowley, with a touch more asperity than he’d intended. He didn’t want to think about Heaven as it used to look (halls and halls of cloud overlooking orchards, palm groves and rivers), not when it set him simmering with a cocktail of emotion best left unexamined.

And oh, shit, he’d put his foot in it now, because Aziraphale burst into tears. In an instant the angel’s head was on Crowley’s shoulder and Crowley’s arms were wrapped tightly around him. Aziraphale’s hands settled around his hips.

“Oh, angel. I should know when to keep my bloody mouth shut, I swear...” Crowley stroked his hand up and down Aziraphale’s back, weaving between his wings. 

“No,” said Aziraphale, after he’d sobbed himself out. “It isn’t your fault,” he whispered against Crowley’s jumper, and blew his nose into a hastily miracled handkerchief. “It’s just... I haven’t had so much as a real conversation with any of the others since I came here. I miss my _friends_ , Crowley. Nuriel, Qadril, Ranael. I thought I’d never see them again, after - after - if things had gone Their way.” He stopped, sounding near tears again - lips trembling, voice quavering all over creation.

”What about when you’re discorporated? Isn’t there time then?” 

“Paperwork,” said Aziraphale bitterly. “In sextuplicate. With Sandalphon breathing down my neck about budget cuts. And even when I visit, in my breaks, I can’t -” He broke off. “I can’t feel at ease with them,” he said, even though Crowley was pretty sure he’d been going to say he couldn’t feel the Host. “I never know what to say. Then it’s, ‘Off you pop, Aziraphale, those wiles won’t thwart themselves.’ It’s... so _lonely_ , sometimes. Doesn’t it get to you?”

“Me? Nah,” lied Crowley. “Most of our lot aren’t too keen on friendship.”[1]

Aziraphale’s grey eyes, awed and trustful, were on his. “And you _bore it_. All alone, without complaint, for so long,” said Aziraphale, in a voice brimful of respect even though it was clogged from crying. Crowley felt his ears grow warm and fought the urge to slither away. Really, did the angel have to make everything sound so _virtuous_? It wasn’t like Crowley had had any choice. What the heaven else could he have done, invited Dagon round to tea for a chat about team building? 

Then Aziraphale was kissing him, gasping into his mouth. Crowley kissed back for all he was worth and slid a hand around to tangle in the angel’s hair. Aziraphale clung to him and made soft noises of satisfaction. 

“Whoa!” Crowley cried, half-laughing, when the angel finally pulled back, “Slow down, Aziraphale, I’m not going to run away.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes. He was breathing hard, just a little - not that he needed to. “Forgive me, my dear,” he said huskily. “I was...” He swallowed. “I...”

“’S okay,” said Crowley, dabbing at the angel’s face with a clean handkerchief. “No need to explain.”

The grateful look Aziraphale gave him made his insides squirm. 

“I didn’t mean... you,” said the angel. “Before, when...” He cleared his throat.

“I know,” said Crowley, even though a tiny, selfish part of him had needed to hear it. “Your wings are all ruffled again, darling.”

“Now that I have someone to show them off to, I’ll be sure to groom them more often.” He reached up to kiss Crowley’s cheek.

“Oh,” drawled Crowley. “I’ll hold you to that, angel.”

Aziraphale‘s chuckle was deliciously sweet. “I shall see you do, my Mephistopheles. And what does such a handsome demon want of me, if I should break my promise?”

He looked right into Crowley’s eyes and smiled. Crowley felt himself colour under that gaze. It was disturbing, how well Aziraphale could flirt when he wanted to.

“I want your very life, angel,” he said in a low voice.

Aziraphale nuzzled against him. “That was always yours, dear heart.” 

[1] This was only half a lie. Most minor demons were fine with friendship in theory, but their idea of a really good time involved setting things on fire and listing all the humans they’d tempted over the last three centuries.


End file.
